


April Fools'

by Eve_Louise (Stregatrek)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Characters from ACD Canon, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fake Dating, I don't know there's a little violence but it isn't graphic, I love Mystrade I couldn't leave it out, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mary for like a minute, Sherlock and John are both idiots, Violence, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:50:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2099697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stregatrek/pseuds/Eve_Louise
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John convinces Sherlock to lie for fun, but the disguise turns out to be a self-portrait</p>
            </blockquote>





	April Fools'

Sherlock looked into the eyes of his blogger. They held humor, trust, the sparkle of an idea. Sherlock sighed, almost imperceptibly, his head turning a degree or two as he considered.  


“Please?” John repeated. “Think of all their faces… Lestrade, oh god, picture Lestrade! And Anderson-! Come on Sherlock, you need a good joke, look at you! Oh, come on. If not to entertain yourself then to entertain me! I could use a good joke!” He shifted his footing, one side of his mouth pulling up in a smile.  


The wheels in Sherlock’s mind were turning, very fast, in redundant circles. He couldn’t say no to John, but he wasn’t sure he could accept this proposal. He sucked the edge of his lip into his mouth, thinking.  


“Just for one day! It’s not like any of them could really think we’re together, they just say it for a laugh! Let’s have a laugh on them!” He reshuffled his feet again, looking down then back up at Sherlock.  


That hurt. The detective’s brows knit, distracted by the emotion within himself. It wasn’t the one day, one whole April first to spend with John as a couple, one whole day when intense gazes could be traded, when he could lightly touch one of those ridiculous jumpers, when it would be acceptable to stand as close as he liked for as long as he wanted. The problem he was struggling with was what he would do on April second, and every day after that when he had had a glimpse of what he wanted most in the world –to be with John- and no longer had that.  


“Oh, come on, you can’t seriously be thinking about this for this long, can you? What’s it going to hurt?” John shifted his posture again, scuffling his feet and cocking his head the other direction.  


Me, quite possibly. Sherlock thought, but looking at John, at the sudden self-consciousness the shorter man was projecting, he couldn’t help but wonder if John wanted this day for the same reasons he himself did. John was watching intently, waiting for a sign of acquiescence or denial, waiting for Sherlock’s verdict on the idea. His body language, the alignment of his shoulders to his hips, suggested he was somehow invested in getting Sherlock to agree with him. Perhaps he wanted to be with Sherlock in the same way that Sherlock wanted to be with him? No. He had denied it too many times. Taunting of some sort? Out of the question; John was far too good a man. A bet was more likely. Mycroft? Oh yes. That theory suited.  


Normally, Sherlock would never formulate a theory this early. Ideas, maybe, but a theory no. But this time, he needed something to go on, something to depend on, to carry himself through. He had to remember at all times that this was nothing more to John than a bet, a joke, an April Fool’s prank on friends. He had to walk a careful line between showing what he wanted and preserving their current friendship. But he could walk that line. He was Sherlock Holmes, and even this problem was not too much for him.  


“We’ll have to start dropping hints. One day, all of a sudden, is simply unacceptable. Too obvious. They’d all know instantly by the date and the inevitable strangeness between us that it was only a joke. No, we’d have to really get them.” Watching the smile break across his blogger’s face, Sherlock got excited. “Oh, this will be fun,” he exclaimed. His hands moved a bit spasmodically, twitching through the air before clasping in front of his mouth as he set his mind to calculating exactly how close John would allow him to get to the truth. But really, tricking a lot of people who thought they knew him. It could require some planning, definitely a bit of forethought, not enough to be a real challenge, but enough to keep him from getting bored.  


“Oh good! You’re right; hints… hints… hmmm.” John tapped his fingers thoughtfully on his leg. “Any ideas?”  
And he’d get to be close to John, try to tell John how he felt without frightening his blogger away. That would keep him from boredom, walking that line. “Uh, yes, ideas. I have fifteen. Tell me first though- how will this end?” Hands in his pockets, he pivoted and took two steps away as he was talking, but turned back to John as he posed his question.  


“Well, I was thinking, maybe we’d have a dinner, or go out with some people. Maybe at the end of dinner I get down on one knee, you know, like couples do, and I pull out a fancy little box and you look all surprised and happy- and then we look at everyone else and say ‘April Fool’s!’ What do you think of that?”  
Sherlock cleared his throat and ducked his head. Hide his eyes- he had gotten caught up in the tableau; John on bended knee, even he knew what that meant. “Yes- sounds good.” He looked at John and tried to smile. “So I suppose I’ll need to start being more sociable. And you’ll need to stop correcting people if they assume we’re together.”  
“Okay. We’ve got two weeks.” John dipped his head in acquiescence, a thoughtful look in his eyes.  
Sherlock had a brilliant idea, and allowed the corners of his mouth to tug upwards. “Next time we’re called out of Baker Street in something of a hurry, give me one of your jumpers.”  
“What?”  
“Don’t be an idiot- It is common knowledge that on occasion I forget or simply do not care what I am wearing or not wearing when I leave the flat. Putting on one of your jumpers rather than my jacket will imply that I was not fully clothed or not in a state of mind to pay overmuch attention to my appearance. This suggests we are intimate emotionally?”  
“Clever, Sherlock. That’s brilliant.” John smiled.  
The detective melted a little, as he always did when John complimented him. No one ever really meant it the way John did, and it meant more to him coming from John than it would have from any other person. “Do you have any ideas, John?” He asked, his voice quiet but still firm.  
“I was sort of-” Eyes drop. A hint of blush. “I was thinking maybe next time we get in a cab, you could hold the door for me? And help me out of it? Like a proper prince charming.”  
One eyebrow climbed, the same side of his mouth rising in confused amusement. “You are no damsel in distress.”  
“Well never mind, it was just a bloody thought.” Full blush. Hand in pocket clenched. Upset? What sort… Offended? Likely.  
“I didn't say I objected.” Sherlock said in a soft, repentant voice. “I understand that conscientious behavior of that sort is generally outside my behavioral patterns.”  
John regarded him oddly. “Okay… so besides that…”

 

Sherlock couldn’t decide whether this scheme of John’s was going to drive him mad, make him the happiest he’d been when not solving crime, or depress him completely. Every time they were around a single other living soul, John took a step- likely intended to look unconscious- towards Sherlock. Once or twice, he had to step backwards and he stumbled. On those occasions, Sherlock caught his blogger and set him tenderly upright, keeping a lingering hand on his elbow. John sometimes leaned over Sherlock in the lab, whispering something- anything, even things he could’ve shouted on a street corner without attracting attention- into his ear. Sometimes they were jokes, and Sherlock looked up from his studies long enough to crack a smile and see John smile in return… Those smiles were worth the frustrating tremors in his hands when John’s breath whispered through his hair and across the nape of his neck.  


The cab idea turned out to be a stunning success. Sherlock knew he had only been meant to do it once or twice, around other people- Lestrade, Anderson. But even when returning to Baker street at all hours of the day and night, he would open his door before the cab had even stopped to be sure that he did not make John wait to be assisted out. John’s warm fingers in his hand, if only for a moment as the retired army doctor left the car, were invariably the highlight of whatever business had necessitated the cab ride in the first place.  
It was at its worst around Mycroft, confirming Sherlock’s suspicions about the involvement of his brother in orchestrating this sweet agony. If Mycroft was in the room, John would begin to say something, then stop and glance nervously at Mycroft as though he thought the man were a bomb set to go off at the mention of one wrong phrase. John would then turn to Sherlock and clasp a hand on his shoulder, forcing the taller man to bend a bit whilst John himself stood on his toes to convey some inane bit of knowledge, which Sherlock usually already knew. Mycroft would look puzzled, and smile when he thought Sherlock wasn’t watching. Sherlock, for his part, knew that his pupils dilated and both his respiratory rate and heart rate increased each time John did this. It rendered him useless for almost a full sixteenth of a second while he stared at John.  
Sometimes John even would go so far as to stand right beside Sherlock and twitch his hand so that their fingers were intertwined for the shortest of moments. It was this action that almost drove Sherlock over the edge. Even John’s whispering in his ear in the lab, which generated nearly the only desire Sherlock had ever felt, was nothing compared to the tenderness of one or two of John’s fingers hooked inside his own. He could never help but gaze at John and smile if his blogger looked up. Even when he knew Mycroft was looking, and gaining who knew what from his observations, Sherlock simply couldn’t fight some of his lovelorn impulses. They drove him mad, but it was a madness most divine.

One day, sitting quietly around Baker Street, Sherlock abruptly declared, “John. I do not want you to leave the flat without me.”  


“Sherlock-why?” The other man folded down a corner of his newspaper so he could see Sherlock. Obligingly, the detective looked at John rather than continuing to stare at the wall while he thought about experiments he could conduct, the postal service, and of course this… thing with John.  


“Because of Mycroft’s unfortunate habit of picking you up when you’re alone. He has been increasingly- troublesome lately, and I just don’t—I don’t want anything to happen. To you.” He clenched and unclenched his hand, expecting an argument or at least a noncommittal sigh.  


“Okay, Sherlock.” John disappeared behind the paper again. Sherlock felt his face contort. He wasn’t sure what expression it held, but he knew what it meant; relief- relief, confusion, and utter adoration. Bemused, he picked up his violin and began composing. From behind the paper came an embarrassed blurt; “Will you write me something? You know. For next Saturday?”  


“I am writing you something.” But not for next Saturday. For always. For every single day.  


“Always a step ahead.” John’s voice trailed off as he returned to his reading. Sherlock pulled a few melancholy notes from his instrument before deciding it was far too dreary for a love song to John. He set the violin down gently and rolled off the couch, beginning to move quickly about the room, hopping and sliding and performing various random acrobatics to excite his system. He crept on his hands and knees toward the armchair where John sat. He poked his head over the back, standing silently. His hands came down softly onto his blogger’s shoulders, two fingers from his left hand trailing gently in John’s hair. He felt a marvelous sense of right, but also a little uncertainty and discomfort, sure of John’s disapproval if he knew that Sherlock really was in love with him, not just playacting in preparation for some stupid prank. “Sh…Sherlock? What are you doing?”  


“Accustoming you to my unsolicited touch. If I lay a hand across your shoulders at dinner in five days and you jump, it won’t look very real, will it?” It was true. Everything Sherlock did, he did with a specific goal. That didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy it, too.  


“….oh. Well.” John cleared his throat and shook out the paper. Clearly uncomfortable. Sherlock’s heart sank. “Carry on, then.” It was a crisp tone of determined ignorance. The heart Sherlock supposedly didn’t possess was being pulled apart by each moment of his stupid, unwanted hands touching John’s shoulders. He removed them after a few seconds, unable to take the unprecedented feeling for long. He glanced morosely at his violin, but instead laid curled on the couch, facing away from John and pretending he couldn’t feel the perplexed gaze on the back of his head.

 

“Holmes!!” The front door banged shut, and Lestrade’s footsteps came slamming up the stairs.  


“John! Jumper!” Sherlock hissed, flinging himself against the closed door to keep their detective inspector friend out.  


John looked about frantically. “They’re all upstairs!” He whispered back.  


“Holmes! Watson!? What’s he doing in there?” Lestrade banged on the door, inches from Sherlock’s head on the other side.  


“Just a moment, Inspector!” John called back, pulling his knit jumper off over his head, leaving himself in his shirtsleeves. Sherlock took a moment to be equal parts disappointed and relieved that John had been wearing something under the jumper; Sherlock didn’t know if he would have been able to focus on anything but shirtless John, as he’d never really experienced attraction before and was unsure just how intense it was going to get. John tossed the still-warm bundle of fabric to Sherlock, who was fighting his shirt buttons with one hand, using the other to hold onto the wall as Lestrade tried to open the door Sherlock was standing against. “Coming!” John shouted. “Things to- move!” 

He started undoing Sherlock’s shirt buttons for him, surprising the consulting detective into arching at the brush of John’s fingertips across a sliver of bare skin on his abdomen. His head shot back, slamming unexpectedly into the door as he moaned gutturally. Good god, he thought to himself. So that was desire.  


“What the hell? What are you doing? This is serious, Sherlock, come on!” Lestrade yelled from the landing, clearly frustrated. Inside, John averted his eyes as Sherlock’s shirt fell away. The taller man forced John’s jumper over his curly hair, trying to ignore the scent of it. He flung open the door and dashed into the landing, looking as frantic as he could, as though he’d just moved some large experiment, or bed. Or leapt out of bed, excited for a case and forcing himself into whatever clothes were handy. Barefoot still, and in John’s jumper, he completely understood why Lestrade looked shocked and a tiny bit absolutely terrified.  


“The game’s afoot!” Sherlock shouted happily, racing down the stairs ahead of Lestrade as John grabbed his coat from beside the door and slammed the door shut. Lestrade pointed, mouth opening and closing fairly quickly, like a fish out of water, but John seized him and pulled him along, trying to keep up with Sherlock.  


“You said it was important, Detective Inspector?” He turned to look at Lestrade as their feet thundered down the stairs. Unfortunately, he was still in his socks, and he slipped on the stairs as he turned. John tried for a moment to catch himself, but tipped in slow motion, right into the arms of one Sherlock Holmes.  


“Well- it is.” Greg Lestrade stood atop the stairs, looking at London’s greatest criminal detectives, in each-others’ arms and clothes. “Am I- missing something?”  


“I don’t think so.” John said almost thoughtfully, while Sherlock just made a face, trying not to smirk or laugh or moan again. He set John down on his own two feet, hands trailing carefully down the blogger’s sides. “Do we need to go?” His voice held the slightest of tremors, and Sherlock desperately hoped it wasn’t generated by disgust or any similar adverse reaction brought on by Sherlock’s touching him.  


“Oh, yes,” Lestrade cleared his throat and bustled past them, getting into a police car while Sherlock flagged down a cab. He handed John in, slid in himself, and they were off.  


“That was good improvisation, with the moan.” John said, not really looking at Sherlock.  


“It wasn’t--” He caught himself. “Thank you. I do try to do what you ask of me.” He looked away for a moment. ”In this case, fool everyone into thinking you love me.” No pain. No pain was allowed to leak into his voice. It was only a statement of fact. Only a statement of the last week or so of dancing painfully around the deepest feeling he’d ever felt, only a statement of the torture of knowing that soon his game would have to end, soon he would have to go back to being helplessly in love with John and unable to hint at his feelings in any way other than refusal to deny the suggestion that he and John were a couple.  


“Well, good,” John said distractedly, watching out the window. “I mean- I’m glad. Er- you know, not glad I suppose, just- thank you.” He said the last two words brightly, but their upbeat sound seemed forced.  


“Of course, John,” Sherlock said, resting his knuckles against his mouth and looking out the window at the rain. He knew John had been expecting fun, a joke, and he hoped he was doing well.  


The cab pulled up behind Lestrade, and Sherlock jumped out, bare feet splashing in the cold rainwater. He smiled a bit at one of his only fond childhood memories of Mycroft- without rain boots, without an umbrella, splashing in the puddles- and moved swiftly to the other side and opened the door for John. “I’d advise taking off your socks, John, they’ll absorb the water and quickly become miserable.”  


John glanced around at Lestrade and all the others, standing around slightly open mouthed or whispering to each other about the barefoot Sherlock Holmes in John’s jumper without an umbrella. “Help me?”  


Sherlock was more than a little nonplussed. He knew John didn’t really need help, which would make this some kind of falsified romantic gesture. Take off John’s socks, though? That was going a bit far, wasn’t it? He rapidly sifted through every romance story he had stored, every silly movie from his childhood he and Mycroft had been made to sit through. He kept the memories mostly for their cultural relevance, but also because Mycroft had been incredibly revealing in his reactions to them, especially the Disney ones from America. Ah- Disney. Glass slippers. But in this case, woolen socks. Close enough. “Of course, John,” He tried to sound smoldering, rather than confused. If he was very lucky, John had a foot fetish. He slipped easily into a graceful crouch at John’s feet and smiled mockingly at the collective gasp he could practically feel coming from the crime scene audience behind him as he slid his hands tenderly down John’s ankles, rolled off his socks and handed them to their owner for safekeeping, all the while maintaining affectionate eye contact. It was a little embarrassing, and he could feel a corresponding blush start on his cheeks, but he ignored it. He stood and offered a hand to lift John out of the cab and onto the curb. John’s fingers shook. Cold? Possibly. But Sherlock was beginning to wonder… No, no, best stop that.  


Most of the crime scene personnel were still staring, though a few looked hurriedly away when Sherlock twitched his brows at them.  
Lestrade cleared his throat. “Sherlock- the crime scene.”  


“Of course!” He released John and nearly trotted up the steps after Lestrade, pausing only to hurl a brief criticism at Anderson, who had taken the excuse of shock at Sherlock’s appearance to drop his paperwork in a puddle at Donovan’s feet and was now trying to look inconspicuously up her skirt. Donovan, for her part, muttered to John as he followed Sherlock; “Now I see why you wouldn’t stay away. Got a kink for the crazy ones, do you?” John’s hand tightened into a fist.  


“He’s not crazy.” He replied shortly, trying to catch up to the barefoot genius leading the way, shaking out his dark curls and spraying rainwater everywhere.  


“He never denied the kink, though.” Donovan commented to Anderson as they both returned to work. “Wonder if it’s for curly hair or cheekbones.” She sighed. Anderson caught her eye disbelievingly. She shrugged. “What? The fact that he’s a freaking psychopath doesn’t mean he can’t be hot.”  


Inside, Sherlock was bending over the bodies of four men, all with discharged guns in their hands, arranged in what would have been a perfect square while they were standing, pointing guns at each other. “Robbers,” He was saying to Lestrade, who was scrubbing uncertainly at his forehead. “Same height and physical build as the four who pulled the burglary at King’s Cross two weeks ago. Clearly, they felt they were going to be caught. And judging by the drugs, they weren’t in their right minds, or they might have realized that they weren’t going to be sentenced to death for robbery. Might not have killed each other.”  


“Drugs?”  


“Needle marks in the arms, Lestrade. The veins. Pupils widely dilated. This one was even foaming at the mouth before he died, look- he must have been the leader. Convinced the others that this was a better alternative to being caught. Recent scuffing on his shoes; pacing. Rumpled hair and clothing; highly agitated.”  


“You’re sure they killed each other?”  


“Angles of entry are correct, this one was left handed, his victim has a corresponding bullet trajectory through his brain. Matching casings, matching bullets, corresponding wounds, sealed room, no looks of surprise, no signs of struggle, no disturbed furniture or dust; nothing to suggest anything but inter-group pre-arranged murder.”  


“Thank you, Sherlock, I think that’s all we need. Two cases solved in less than two minutes- that might be your new record.”  


“Disappointing, Lestrade, that was so boring! Next time try Anderson, even he could have solved this one. Don’t be so quick to interrupt me; not every case requires someone who’s not an idiot.”  


“Yes, I can see you were… busy…” Lestrade coughed and looked down at his notes. Sherlock gave the tired-looking man a once-over. New shoes, standing uncomfortably so not worn in yet. Just began shaving with a new razor. Haircut. Dressing up? No wedding ring. Forgotten? Unlikely. Tired, certainly… Not important at the moment.  


“Indeed we were- come, John, we must get you…” He looked deliberately at his friend’s torso, “out of those wet clothes.”  
John, still feeling protective of his friend after Donovan’s slander, took Sherlock’s arm. “Your feet must be freezing, Sherlock!”  


“No worse than yours, I’m sure.” He fought the urge to create more physical contact with John, instead attempting to content himself with John’s smell on the jumper and John’s warm hand in the crook of his arm. It was odd, he had never craved physical intimacy with another person, but with John he only ever wanted more than he was given. John, however, seemed to finally note the sad loneliness and longing in Sherlock’s eyes, removing his hand from Sherlock’s arm only to rest it at the small of the taller man’s waist. It was warm and gentle but firm, and though Sherlock could never have explained it, the pressure and placement just felt loving. But that was impossible.  


Sherlock’s brain went into emotional overdrive, trying to deduce whether John wanted his hand where it was because he was in love with Sherlock like Sherlock was in love with him, or whether John was putting his hand there for mere show, or because he had caught something in Sherlock’s eyes and thought it was another clever improvisation for Lestrade, which would mean he was only playing along- “Goodbye, Dr. Holmes- I mean, Watson.” Donovan sniped as they left. Sherlock was still lost in his calculations and memories, but he extracted his hand from his pocket, planning to flip Donovan the bird for John’s honor, but John grabbed his hand as he raised it, muttering, “Sherlock- really. Just leave it.” He pushed Sherlock into the first cab that stopped, waving an overly cheery goodbye to the dumbfounded police. This presented Sherlock with another conundrum; was John only trying to get him to leave? To get away from the rain, away from the mocking, away from the awkward stares, out of public whilst dressed as he was- that seemed likely. Sherlock realized he had allowed himself hope as it was crushed. The cab rolled up at Baker Street and Sherlock assisted John out as had become his custom.  


John cleared his throat. “Er- sorry I stopped you from giving Donovan the bird. I mean, it’s all just a joke, and a joke isn’t worth you being attacked like that.”  


“I was fine. It was merely a false slip of the tongue intended to imply that you had taken my last name as is the tradition in marriage.” Sherlock looked quizzically at the back of John’s head as the shorter man unlocked the door to their flat.  


“Then- why were you going to flip off a uniformed cop on a crime scene?” John held the door and allowed Sherlock to brush past him.  


“She wasn’t uniformed.”  


“She had on the jacket, Sherlock, you know what I mean.” John looked at him as they climbed the stairs together, inscrutable for once.  


“I… didn’t want her to get away with offending you.”  


“Offending me? I- um. Well… thanks?” John wandered into the kitchen. Sherlock allowed his face to crumple as John looked away. He stood aimlessly for a moment, then laid on the couch, curled up in his wet clothes and facing away from the room. His hair stuck to his face and his pants clung both to his legs and to the leather. He realized belatedly, as the scent reached him again, that he was still wearing John’s jumper. It too was wet, and it hung heavily against Sherlock’s skin. He didn’t want to move, though, and he didn’t want to think. He wished he could turn off his thrumming heart and beating engine of a mind, just for a little while. He searched desperately for sleep, something he didn’t usually do, especially when John was around. Normally the proximity of his blogger calmed his mind somewhat and made his heart ache just enough that he wanted to distract himself- with anything, from increasingly ridiculous case requests to daytime television. But now, the sound of John in the kitchen and the heaviness of his clothes, his hair, his heart- it all just made him want to escape.  


John carried in a tea tray to find Sherlock sleeping on the couch. Less than soundly, by the looks of it. His friend’s arms moved slowly, his head pushing closer into the cushions then moving away restlessly, his feet twitching as though balancing. He sighed. “John…” Sherlock whispered.  


“Awake then? Thought maybe you were. Never known you to sleep in the middle of the afternoon, especially not soaking wet and trembling.” John set down the tray and smiled, waiting for Sherlock to roll over or talk to him.  


“John…” Sherlock curled in on himself further, knees almost touching his chin and arms going clumsily around his own chest.  


“You’re actually asleep, aren’t you?” John was surprised, and sat down to watch without really thinking. “Wait… are you dreaming of me?” He was incredulous.  


“John…” It was almost a whimper, so pathetic coming from the usually-impervious lanky man curled on the couch, soaking wet and in a heartbreaking posture; holding himself tight, brows drawn sadly together and lips parted slightly.  


“You really are, aren’t you?” John sat back, not knowing quite what to do.  
\--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------  


Sherlock knew he was having the best dream of his life; he tried to remember every second, regardless of how strange he felt, thinking of how much John would disapprove. In his dream, he was cold, but not wet like he had been when he fell asleep. He was wearing his normal clothes; pants, purple shirt, but still no shoes. He leaned on the wall with the heating ducts in it, hoping to glean some of the energy and warm up without having to go find his coat. John rounded the corner and asked what the matter was, to which he responded with the truth about being cold. The blogger stepped forward and into Sherlock’s personal space, wearing an expression that said Sherlock was not allowed to back away- not that he would have anyway. John walked carefully right up to Sherlock, reaching one hand up to caress the side of Sherlock’s neck and jaw, a fond expression on his face. Sherlock bent so John could bring their faces together properly. The lines in John’s forehead deepened as he looked up, into Sherlock’s eyes. There was a split-second pause before their lips came together, clearly the last time Sherlock was allowed to object. He didn’t, of course he didn’t. He had never really kissed before, and it was his dearest wish- illogical and sentimental as it might seem- to share his first kiss with John. John’s hand was soft in his hair now, pulling him gently closer, guiding the inexperienced detective. 

Their kiss quickly became passionate, warming Sherlock rapidly, from each point connected to John to the rest of his body in a few brief seconds. He pulled the shorter man closer, one arm going around John’s waist while the other wrapped around John’s shoulders and cradled his head. The hand that had been in Sherlock’s hair was across the top of Sherlock’s shoulders, pulling him closer, and John’s other arm was wrapped firmly around Sherlock, just below his shoulder blades. They seemed to fit together perfectly, Sherlock’s height and slim figure bending gracefully around John’s shorter, stockier build. John broke the kiss, pulling Sherlock’s lower lip very gently with his teeth. He brought one hand up to caress the flush Sherlock could feel on his cheeks. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes.”

For possibly the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes fought the return to consciousness, the return to his harsh reality; freezing cold and alone, with only one more day to pretend: tomorrow was April Fool’s. He sighed as he awakened fully, shivering and unable to hear or sense John anywhere. He rolled over, the wet clothes unsticking awkwardly from the couch.  


John had left a note, propped against an empty vase- “Sherlock~ I went for a walk. I have an umbrella, I’m warm, I’m safe. Don’t worry. Oh, and I won’t go anywhere with Mycroft, I promise.” Sherlock sighed again and pulled the blanket tighter around him. Blanket- John must have given it to him. Thoughtful… He knew he should get up and take a hot shower or at least put on dry clothes, but he still didn’t want to move. He laid still, shivering, for a few more minutes before the thought crossed his mind that if he got up and warmed up quickly, he could make dinner for John. Now that he had a goal, he nearly threw himself off the couch, stumbling when his cold limbs shook under him.  


What was John’s favorite, he asked himself as he put on his favorite purple shirt after a hot shower that had restored almost all feeling in his limbs and digits. Pasta, probably. He padded barefoot into the kitchen, opening drawers and cupboards in search of pasta and a pot to begin with. Once he had the water on the stove, he began to cut vegetables and find spices. John didn’t like cheese, but he loved garlic. No carrots, but green vegetables were good. He made a strange sort of stir fry to add to the pasta and set it on the table, getting out two glasses and hunting through the shelves to find where John had hidden the wine this time. Normally he wouldn’t object; water went well with everything; but he had acquired a taste for wine on occasions, and this night was certainly an occasion. The last they would spend alone without Sherlock reflecting on these past two weeks as a sort of paradise lost. Just as he finished pouring the finally-discovered wine, he heard the front door shut. So as to not seem as though he planned for this dinner to be romantic, Sherlock quickly retreated into the kitchen and began cleaning up the mess he’d made. He worked efficiently, and was closing the last cabinet as John opened the door. 

“Sherlock?” He called. His voice was warm. “We have a guest!”  
Sherlock’s heart almost stopped. Please, he begged all the gods he didn’t believe in. Let it be Lestrade. Let it be Mycroft. Let it be Anderson, even Donovan, just not- He came around the corner, forcing his face into a calm mask even as he fell apart inside. Some girl, some pretty little redheaded thing, just under John’s height and looking adoringly at the ex-army doctor. 

“You’re both welcome to dinner,” He forced out, hearing his baritone tremble. He bit the inside of his cheek, hard, and forced himself not to wince. “I’ll just be out.” He knew that leaving John alone with this girl increased the chances that John would be romantic with her, but at the same time he couldn’t stand to sit there and watch his hopes fall apart. He just couldn’t. He clung to his dream, even as he felt it shudder and tear inside his mind, and he nearly ran out the door. Sherlock had given himself hope, and now it was being taken away.  


He had lost. He had fought so hard, all week, last week, oftentimes fought subtly before that- tomorrow was his grand finale, the last day of his struggle for John’s affections, his struggle to get John to even notice his own.  


Sherlock Holmes hadn’t cried over the actions of another person since he was three years old and Mycroft accidentally broke his favorite toy- the one he was still young enough to consider a friend rather than a toy. But he was crying now, he could feel it, hot tears starting in his eyes and threatening to spill over. How could John- how could he? Stop it, Sherlock, he told himself firmly. John has no idea that you’re so pathetically, desperately in love with him. You will stop feeling betrayed. Now.  


His feet had carried him outside, where it had stopped raining but was still cold. He wished he had a close friend. His only friend was inside with half of Sherlock’s broken heart. The only thing he could think to do was to go to the hospital and do some experiment or other- he was sure he could think of something, and Molly would let him in. Molly was- kind.  


Was this how she felt? He wondered suddenly. Was this how it was for her every time he went in and ignored her lipstick and tried to tell her without words that he wasn’t interested? If so, he was sorry, so sorry, and she was so strong. He had to go to the hospital, even just to see her and leave. She had to know he understood- even if he could never love her in return, just as John could never love him in return, Sherlock finally understood and was sorry.  
Mycroft was right. Caring was not an advantage.

 

Sherlock returned to the apartment in the very early morning. He was drained. It was incredible and maddening, the things John could do to him; he’d never experienced emotional drainage before. He had hugged Molly wordlessly, tears spilling out finally, and then he had gone to find Mycroft. True, his brother was never exactly supportive, especially when it came to emotions, but Sherlock still believed that his older brother would never knowingly have inflicted this pain on him, regardless of whether he approved of caring. He had needed to know- what exactly had Mycroft said to John about starting the whole farce? Mycroft had listened to Sherlock quietly, fingers folded in front of his mouth, provided a succinct answer, and spared a look of pity; he had wanted John to come to a realization. He wouldn’t say what, he only said that he was worried for Sherlock and wanted John to come to a realization. Sherlock of course turned over all the possibilities, but couldn’t decide which one was closest to the truth, so he just nodded tiredly at Mycroft, whose usually stern face slipped away at the sight of his normally brilliant, aloof brother in such a sorry state. He had offered Sherlock a place to sleep, and Sherlock had taken it, knowing he would regret it later. He knew he would regret the whole night later- letting his emotions run away with him, letting them show at all, confusing Molly as he likely had, going to Mycroft for help- but at the moment he had been too tired and pained to care. He rose very early and wrote Mycroft as much of a thank-you as he could bring himself to; “Mycroft. Thank you. Sherlock.”  


Now he padded softly, still barefoot, back into his own flat. John had cleaned up dinner, how thoughtful- he felt tears threaten again. Instead of giving in, he went to his bedroom and took off his clothes, unsure whether he could overcome the stupidity of emotional impressions to wear them again. He put on his sleep wear, and noticed that he still had John’s jumper in his room. Two possibilities sprang to mind: to sleep with it and revel for two more hours in the scent of John and the texture Sherlock associated with him, or to be a good boy and return it without being obsessive or strange. Maybe it was duty to John, but he decided despondently on the latter. He made sure it was dry before folding it carefully and carrying it up to the landing outside the upstairs bedroom John occupied. He did pause for a moment to be sure there was only one set of lungs breathing inside- there was. Thank everything that ever has been or will be holy, Sherlock thought somewhat ironically. He knew he would not have left his room, just like a child, had John brought someone else downstairs on the morning that was supposed to be theirs. Sherlock still wasn’t quite sure why John had brought home a girl the night before April Fools- oh, wait, of course he knew. It meant nothing to John, it was all a joke. Every brush of their fingers was a set-up, every soft touch and sweet look. They had meant the world to Sherlock, but were only a joke to John.  


John could so easily tear him apart. His emotions were normally locked up in a tidy little box, when they occurred at all, but John released a flood of feeling Sherlock could not easily ignore. He needed another case, he needed something besides this disappointment and crushing loneliness. But since it was four in the morning and the only distraction that could be expected rationally was sleep, he returned to his room and fell into his own bed, falling asleep as quickly as he could manage.

 

He awoke later that morning to the smell of cooking batter. Odd, he thought, John never makes breakfast. He decided it must be pancakes, because of the simplicity. Slowly, he arose, and glided into the main body of the apartment, unsure what to expect and trying to act normally.  


“Morning!” John greeted him cheerfully. “Have a seat, breakfast is almost ready.” He gestured with a spatula at the seat with its back to the kitchen. Sherlock sat, grateful that he did not have to guess what expression would be best received and then hold it in place. He heard John approach from behind him, and then a plate of strawberry pancakes appeared in front of him. “Breakfast,” John announced happily, and pressed a shy but determined kiss to the side of Sherlock’s jaw. The consulting detective stiffened, shocked and mortified. What fresh hell was this, that he would have to live with knowing what this felt like and never being able to recreate it…  


“John?” He tried to keep his voice very calm.  


“I just thought, that’s pretty much the only thing we haven’t thought to practice, and if there’s occasion today… I didn’t want either one of us to be surprised and give the game away.” John shrugged and sat down with his own breakfast. He was lying- about what?  


“Ah.” Sherlock glued his eyes to his food, cutting it up into neat little squares and trying to force his mind off of the one topic it had clung to relentlessly for the past two weeks; how to get John to notice him. It was hopeless, he told himself again, he had lost. The little redhead had won, and Sherlock Holmes had lost. It would have been an unpleasant feeling even if the prize hadn’t been John’s affections. He knew his hands were shaking slightly, and he didn’t know whether it was out of anger, hopelessness, or sheer disappointment. He knew he was overcompensating, with the tiny little perfect pancake squares, but it was better than the alternative; flinging breakfast everywhere and shouting or being perfectly silent whilst losing control of himself entirely.  


“I know I don’t really make breakfast… is it okay?” John asked, fork paused halfway to his own mouth.  


Sherlock put one of the tiny squares in his mouth, chewing quickly. “Yes. Thank you.” He pushed his face into a smile. Really, the pancakes were sort of dry and the strawberries seemed to have been crushed once or twice, but he appreciated John’s attempt and after all, food was food. With someone else he might’ve said that it wasn’t very good food, but he wanted to make John happy- even the fleeting happiness of having made breakfast properly. He knew that John didn’t think Sherlock ate enough, too, which was sweet- no, no it wasn’t, he corrected himself sternly. It was friendly concern, the sort that merited absolutely no further consideration.  


“Well, you made dinner last night.” John poked at his pancakes. “Least I could do.” He looked up and gave Sherlock a sort-of smile.  


Sherlock forced back the odd sensation in his throat. “Did you enjoy it, then?”  


“It was all my favorites. Thank you for… remembering.” John looked back down at his plate. Sherlock’s left hand trembled the slightest bit. He flexed it to stop the spasming. 

Suddenly, he felt a shy sort of pressure on his bare feet- John’s socks were sliding cautiously over the top of them. John was playing- footsies. In their apartment. Under the table. No one could see them, no one would see their feet tangled together even if they played footsies all day. Sherlock stopped the train of thought, sending it flying off the tracks to roll down a hill and begin burning slowly. He refused allow its erroneous conclusion to arrive at his mind palace. He assessed his own thoughts. Clearly, hope was infecting them again. He could not allow that- he could not allow himself to believe for one second that John loved him too.  
Still, for the moment- he twitched his feet carefully in return. John glanced up, surprised, into Sherlock’s eyes. Something was definitely there, under the surprise- thankfulness? Impossible… Sherlock cleared his throat, ruthlessly smashing his own hope; “So- how did your… guest like dinner?”  


“Actually, she didn’t stay long enough to have any. Your half is in the fridge.” John resumed eating with what looked to Sherlock almost like forced nonchalance, while his feet still moved timidly over Sherlock’s.  


“Oh. I’m sorry.” He offered weakly, feeling a wave of relief crash over him.  


“She only came to meet you, really.” John said. “Girl from the blog. Almost kissed me when she found out who I was- I didn’t think you’d mind meeting someone, you’ve seemed bored and distracted. Well, more than usual.” John snorted, shaking his head faintly and spearing another piece of pancake with his fork. “Where’d you go, anyway?” He asked before pushing it inside his mouth.  


A tremendous weight seemed like it had been lifted from Sherlock’s chest, and he happily took a deep breath. “To see Molly. And Mycroft.”  


“Oh?” John stabbed another unsuspecting bit of pancake with his fork.  


“I had… things to discuss.”  


John opened his mouth to form a reply, but his phone went off in his pocket. “Speaking of- here’s a text from Mycroft. He asks whether you’re all right?” Watson looked up from his phone to see Holmes give a swift nod. “And tells me… Not to mess up. Basically. I’m paraphrasing. Any ideas?”  


“Only unlikely ones.” Sherlock contemplated them nonetheless, absently rubbing one foot up John’s ankle and marshaling his pancake squares into a line for consumption. At the edge of his perception, he noticed John shiver. “Cold?” He asked distractedly.  


“Hm? Oh, no, no.” John shook his head, slight flush appearing on his neck. Embarrassed? Clearly. About what? He thought. Nothing. When did John get so good at being unreadable?  


Sherlock went back to eating. Clearly, Mycroft’s warning to John was about the significance of the day and their bet coming to fruition. Sherlock wished he could read the text- or better yet, hear the original terms of the bet.  


This was his trouble with emotional observations; he could make them just as easily as he made empirical observations, but he never knew what to do with the information. More often than not, he simply deleted it as soon as he knew it. Except with John, of course- he’d deleted information on the workings of the solar system to make room for John’s preferences. Which had resulted in endless teasing, but he’d never admit to John that the reason he didn’t know where their planet was in relation to the rest of the system was because he had deemed it more relevant to know John’s favorite color, what types of communication worked best, and how he liked his beverages.  


“So, what are we doing today?” Sherlock asked, voice low and somewhat intimate. He could still win the day. Okay, so maybe he was letting himself hope a little, but, he reasoned, he could always delete the memory of these past two weeks if it became too painful.  


John glanced up, feet twisting between Sherlock’s. “I thought we’d start with going out somewhere- just the two of us, but somewhere people might see us.”  


“Like a date?”  


John smiled a little at the memory of first explaining to Sherlock that they weren’t on a date. “Yes, like a date,” his right foot caressed Sherlock’s left. “Anywhere you’d like to go?”  


Sherlock fought down the impulse to tell John that he’d follow John absolutely anywhere. “Wherever you’d like.”  


In the end, they went down to the Thames and watched the ships. People walked by, one or two recognized them and waved, but in all it was rather quiet. Sherlock stood as close as he dared to his blogger. His hands moved restlessly, seeming to have gained independent thought with the sole goal of holding on to John. To stymie this, he placed them on the rail he and John were leaning on. They flexed impatiently, but quieted. John leaned on his shoulder and Sherlock looked down, unable to resist pressing a kiss to that salt-and-pepper hair. After all, this was the day he was supposed to be obvious. And if he had to blink back tears, well, so what? John wanted to pretend, and so Sherlock would pretend. He had never felt like this before- no one had ever engendered even the feeling of trust before he met John, and yet… his blogger was the most important person in the world to him. Sherlock didn’t know what he would do without John.  


“Are you- oh my god, you’re Sherlock Holmes!” Someone squealed from behind him.  


“Put your arm around me,” John whispered, muffled, into Sherlock’s coat. Sherlock complied automatically as he turned to see who was attempting to gain his attention. He sustained a brief, uninterested conversation with a woman who introduced herself as Mary Morstan, all the while reveling in the bittersweet feeling of John pulled so close against him. One of John’s hands had gone around Sherlock’s back and was rubbing small, timid circles along the detective’s spine. Sherlock didn’t know what to do with all the wonderful new sensory input. In the end, he filed it away safely, deleting a slew of line-dance moves. If he needed to dance ever again, he could observe and retain them only long enough to perform them. He would never get to experience this feeling again, and he intended to treasure it.  


“From the blog, I never would’ve known you two were a couple!” The girl said eventually, smiling hugely. “That is so great. I mean, I can’t lie,” She grinned and shifted her weight to her left foot, “I’m a bit disappointed you’re not free, Dr. Watson,” She winked, “but I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re together. I always thought you must be a little lonely, Mr. Holmes.”  


“I was.” He answered honestly, brushing his thumb over John’s shoulder and resting his slightly trembling mouth momentarily in John’s hair. John quivered, but without being able to see his face, Sherlock couldn’t determine a cause. He imagined the ex-army doctor blushing a little, smile becoming fixed, as he wished that Sherlock wasn’t there so he could flirt with this pretty Mary Morstan. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant thought to subject himself to, but it did remind him that this was the last day he had with John.  


“Well, I won’t interrupt your date any longer, I just had to tell you what a fan I am. You’re such an asset to our city.” She smiled again and left with a cheerful wave, flipping her blonde hair away from her face.  


Sherlock released John, as he thought the blogger would prefer, and leaned on the railing with his arms folded, staring at the ships on the river, telling himself that his eyes were watering from the cold wind. John’s hand moved to Sherlock’s waist again. He coughed self-consciously. “You- er- you didn’t have to let go. It’s cold- and it couldn’t hurt for people to see- and-”  


Not waiting for any more of an explanation, Sherlock extended one arm and wrapped John in it, not looking away from the boats moving slowly. His blogger curled close to him. It was the best feeling Sherlock had ever known. If only it could last.  


They arrived back at the flat, John holding Sherlock’s hand and Sherlock trying not to make eye contact in order to hide all the love he knew was showing behind his lashes. 

Ms. Hudson met them at the door, eyes darting between them and taking in the obvious adoration and desolation in Sherlock’s eyes, their clasped hands. The woman was less of an idiot than Sherlock often gave her credit for being, he knew, as she pursed her lips and eyed Watson’s slightly ducked head with disapproval. “So then, what are you two up to?” She asked.  


“Going upstairs to wait around in case Lestrade thinks of something halfway interesting for us to do.” Sherlock said. “Also, John,” He tried to empty his eyes as he turned to look down at his beloved blogger. “I’d like to play something for you, if you have time to listen.”  


“I’ll just leave you boys to it, then.” Mrs. Hudson said, casting one last concerned look at Sherlock before bustling off.  


John disentangled their hands. “I’ll be right up, I just want to invite her to dinner very quickly- we decided on the North Umberland place where we waited for the taxicab killer?”  


Sherlock nodded, heading up the stairs to prepare his violin. He was actually nervous- his palms were sweating and his breathing seemed to be becoming erratic. It was such a new feeling- one of the many unprecedented feelings John sparked inside him. He tossed his coat over the back of a chair, ordering his sheet music on its stand and removing his violin from its case. He knew he had the technical proficiency to do his piece justice, but what would John think of it? How would he present it? Should he face the window and play, should he look at John, should he pace around the room? Should he announce the title? Should he simply say “For John?” Should he act as though someone else had written it for someone entirely different and he was merely an orchestral member performing it for a disconnected audience?  


Just as Sherlock had finished shakily tuning his violin, John came in, bearing tea and leaving the door open. He sat on the couch, holding his mug in his lap with both hands. He smiled encouragingly at Sherlock, though the detective noted discomfort in the cant of his shoulders and regret in his eyes. He didn’t spare the time to deduce what the regret was for- he couldn’t crush his own spirit as he had done last night. Today was his last day, and he had to do his very best. John was watching, so Sherlock drew in a deep breath and began playing, drawing the first slow notes from his instrument. They were meant to signify interest, the first attraction Sherlock had ever experienced, anticipation. He played through the suspense of their first case, the revelation of the phone, not missing the disappointment in being called colleague instead of friend, not skipping over the dissatisfaction in being not on a date but on a stake-out, the weak attempt at covering up his own interest by saying he was married to his work. The climax of the first movement began when John shot the taxi driver and reached fever pitch when Sherlock realized what John had done for him, bringing forth a mix of thankful sweetness and confusion. It finished with Sherlock’s touch of humor at his shock blanket and happiness in his new flat-mate. A bar of rest. The next case. A bar of rest. The next case. He had tried to condense them without losing the highlights, and in between the cases there were measures of the restlessness and hope of living every day with John, with nothing to distract him from the man’s pull. He didn’t leave out, but did try to minimalize, the jealousy over each new girl John brought home, and the satisfaction when they left that made him hate himself. He didn’t leave out his curiosity in the enigma that had been Irene Adler, or the illogical attachment he’d sustained for her- he now considered her his only friend besides John, and he played his notes of interest in her completely differently than he played the notes meant for John. He didn’t leave out the confusion of his new life- he had never been deeply attached before, but now every breath John drew was important to him. He had honest feelings now, even if they still weren’t often fully expressed. He even made friends now. And it was all thanks to John. He didn’t know quite how he felt about this new state, but he included it nonetheless, determined not to skip over any aspect of the ways John impacted his life. Occasionally, there were long notes, full of the longing and discontent Sherlock felt, but counterbalanced by his notes of happiness in having John around at all, at having the perfect case partner and flat-mate, the perfect man in his life, even if it wasn’t quite as he would hope.  


He sometimes held John’s eyes, but looked away often, afraid of what his own were revealing. He played from beside the window, wanting to be close enough to John that it felt personal, but not so close that the blogger felt like his personal space was being invaded. His face cradled the violin, and sometimes he simply closed his eyes. When he had roughly two minutes to go, he heard footsteps on the stairs. Sherlock tried to play even more meaningfully, pour even more of his previously pent-up passion into his music, in an effort to keep John’s attention on him.  


Lestrade’s voice came hesitantly from the doorway, observing Sherlock’s unguarded, fervent face and posture while John sat spellbound on the sofa, tea going cold between his hands. “Er- Sherlock, there’s a case-”  


“Sh.” Watson said, holding up a hand without looking away from Sherlock.  


For his part, the great detective had progressed to playing out the story of the April Fool’s day idea, from his timidity at the onset to his desperate hope to his wonderful dream, the sweetness of John’s lips on his even in his imagination. He improvised the last few bars, doing his best to describe the despondency of the night before and the optimism of today, as well as the soaring feeling inside his chest when John had asked to be held and the numb sensation that came with realizing he’d eventually have to let go. The last note he drew from the violin screamed of hope and the desire for tomorrow to be the same as today.  


He put his violin down on the chair, looking up at John, who set his tea carefully on the side table. “Well,” Sherlock asked in his deep baritone, with some trepidation. “What did you think?”  


There was a blazing look in John Watson’s eyes as he stood to meet his detective. The shorter man moved without hesitation into Sherlock’s space, holding eye contact and reaching up on his toes to press a kiss to Sherlock’s mouth- their first real kiss. Sherlock knew it was probably for Lestrade’s benefit, but he couldn’t quite make himself believe that when he finally had John Watson pressed gratefully, urgently, into his chest. One of Sherlock’s large, pale hands cupped the back of John’s head, anchoring him while Sherlock tried rapidly to learn how to kiss John Watson to perfection. His other hand rested lightly on John’s waist, stroking over the characteristic jumper he was wearing. One of John’s arms rested over Sherlock’s shoulder, the other wrapped around the thinner man’s back. Everything Sherlock was feeling was new, frightening, a little uncomfortable, and absolutely perfect, except the nagging doubt in the back of his mind that said that John had left the door open on purpose, that he knew Lestrade would come, that this passionate kiss was only for show. His hand tightened in John’s hair, and he hoped he didn’t hurt the blogger. On the contrary, John moaned quietly into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock was momentarily alarmed to feel his own knees go weak at the hushed, desperate noise.  


“O-kay!” Lestrade interrupted. “I was going to try to let you two have your moment, but this is way too much of a moment. Can we go now? Please?”  


“Is the case more intelligent than the last time?” Sherlock asked, turning his head toward Lestrade but keeping his hold on John.  


“Yes- woman dead in a room, all doors and windows locked, she looks terrified, her sister says she called and said, ‘the speckled band’ before screaming and dropping the phone.”  


“Interesting…” Sherlock regretfully released John, hoping that he wasn’t letting go of the one and only kiss he would get from the older man- and beginning to suspect he wasn’t. He grabbed his coat and scarf, pulling both on as John drained his tea and picked up his own jacket.  


“We’ll have to take the train- it’s a bit of a jaunt.” Lestrade said. “’S how I got here. There’ll be a car waiting for us at the station.” He left, followed closely by the detective, followed closely by his blogger.  


“No witnesses, I presume?” Sherlock asked, moving to put his hands in his pockets, but John caught one and held it. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder uncertainly. John looked back with hopeful insecurity, and Sherlock decided he would just have to find out what all this meant when John saw fit to tell him. Not knowing wasn’t something he was accustomed to, but this time, for John, he supposed it would turn out favorably. He squeezed his blogger’s hand and smiled optimistically back.  


“None. Just the phone call to the sister.”  


“Where?”  


“Ever heard of Stoke Moran?” Lestrade asked as they flagged down a cab to take them to the station. Sherlock shook his head. “What about Dr. Roylott?”  


“I may have read an advertisement somewhere… John, do you know who he is?”  


“Dentist, isn’t he?”  


“Yes, a dentist. Stoke Moran is the ancestral home of his family. He’s obsessed with all things India, be careful when we get there that you don’t piss off the baboon; Anderson did.”  


Sherlock snorted in amusement. “Is there any living thing Anderson could avoid upsetting?”  


“Well, he seemed to get on all right with most of the vagrants living on Roylott’s land- apparently the man’s taken it on himself to create a gypsy encampment on his property. Some kind of attempt to bring back the old hippy spirit. So far, our best theory is that Julia- that’s the name of the dead woman- was referring to the speckled headbands some of the gypsies wear. But of course we’ve got no idea what she could’ve meant by that.”  


“Don’t form theories too early on- the facts should not be twisted to suit any preconceived idea, no matter how obvious it seems.” Sherlock remembered his own desperation for a theory to depend on during this whole April Fool’s day escapade with John. He was questioning it now, his lips still tingling and his mind wrapped in the sight of John’s beautiful dilated eyes.  


“Right, well, anyway.” Lestrade opened the cab door and slid out. John waited for Sherlock to take his hand and convey him out, as usual. Sherlock pulled his friend close to himself, and Watson pushed his face past Sherlock’s scarf, kissing his neck and making the detective blush. Lestrade cleared his throat. “Can we go?”  


“Yes,” John said, keeping hold of Sherlock’s hand and leading the docile, bemused detective through the ticket line and onto the train. He sat next to Sherlock, with Lestrade across from them and looking confused at their sudden tactile adventures.  


“So… the facts are pretty much like this; we got the call from one Helen Stoner, sister of the deceased. The death took place at their step-father’s estate, two days before the wedding of the deceased. Her fiancé’s there, Sherlock, try not to frighten him if you see him. Nervous little man; fainted when Donovan surprised him.” Lestrade rolled his eyes and flipped to the next page of his notes. “Like I said earlier, the step-father is obsessed with India. There’s memorabilia and kitsch on literally every available surface. In addition to the baboon, he keeps a cheetah on the grounds, so watch out for that as well. I’d imagine it’s in a cage, since I haven’t seen it, but I suppose it could just be asleep. The room Julia died in is a bedroom, right next to the step-father’s bedroom. Be careful of the man, Sherlock, he’s dangerous. Tried to crush my hand when he found out we were the police.” Lestrade ruefully held up his hand, with black and blue finger marks on it like a psychotic bodybuilder had shaken it.  


Sherlock scoffed. “Dangerous… Physical strength does not equal dangerous, Lestrade, and besides; I have plenty of strength myself.”  


John’s grip tightened on Sherlock’s hand, and he whispered into Sherlock’s ear, “Please… be careful. Don’t provoke anyone, Sherlock.”  


Sherlock’s face softened, and he squeezed back. With every passing moment he looked forward more and more to dinner. He suspected that this wasn’t all for show. The bet between Mycroft and Watson- it had to be that John couldn’t make Sherlock fall in love with him. Mycroft would have known, of course, that Sherlock was already in love with John, and it fit that Mycroft would try to pair them up; then there would always be someone around to take good care of his wayward younger brother. His bet with John would have had the real objective of getting John to acknowledge his own feelings. It was all very neat, theoretically. Sherlock made a mental note to write Mycroft a better thank-you.  


“Can I… Can I just say how weird this is?”  


“What is?” Sherlock asked, snapping the majority of his immediate attention back to Lestrade.  


“I mean, I’m just sitting here, trying to get you to help me solve a murder, and meanwhile you two have evidently stopped being a horrible tragic unrequited love story and decided to just be a normal love story like the rest of us-” he stopped. “Okay, well, ‘normal,’” He put little quotation marks in the air with his fingers. “And I’m just… sitting here. Ugh.” Lestrade sighed and put his face in his hand. “This is so not my division.”  


“John, let go of me.”  


“What?”  


“Let go of me.”  


“Why?” Oh, that was telling. John’s immediate response was to not want to let go of Sherlock. That pleased Sherlock, who was beginning to feel quite smug indeed.  


“Lestrade’s left his wife, we’re being insensitive.”  


“He’s what?”  


“Damn it, Holmes!” Greg sat up and glared with all the energy he could muster. “Now you’re being insensitive!”  


“What happened? Can I ask?” John said, leaning forward with a concerned expression.  


“He fell for someone else.” Sherlock supplied helpfully. “Taller. No crick in the neck anymore, eh Lestrade? And they look after you- clean suit, sitting well, fits you perfectly. Dressing up for them? Some image you have to fit? Oh, but it’s not just political. You look tired, but your eyes aren’t heavy, clearly you’re entertained. They are irritating however; you haven’t slept right in a few weeks… I suppose that could just be the stress of trying to leave your ex-wife though, couldn’t it?”  


“Oh for the love of-” Lestrade licked his lips and leaned forward in his seat. “You stop doing that right now, Sherlock. You do not want to know who it is, I promise you that.”  


The smell of Lestrade’s cologne wafted toward Sherlock as the detective inspector leaned forward. He made a face that was equal parts sheer terror and disgust.  


“What’s wrong, Sherlock?” John turned back to his consulting detective as Lestrade’s face flickered through sympathetic to mocking to superior.  


“W… Why would you do that?” Sherlock asked, revolted.  


“I told you that you didn’t want to know.” Lestrade answered with a grin.  


“Excuse me, but, what on earth are you two on about?”  


“He’s dating my brother, John, don’t be an idiot- He smells like Mycroft. Mycroft’s tall and obnoxious and holds his umbrella with his right hand which means Lestrade has to hold his left which is why the detective inspector’s right pant leg is damp from being splashed each time Mycroft took a step. It would also explain why there were a pair of men’s shoes at Mycroft’s house last night that didn’t belong to Mycroft and- oh look, the inspector’s wearing them now, which I suppose means you were listening to me last night, too? I thought my brother was being kinder than usual. Oh dear…” Sherlock edged further and further away from Lestrade as he spoke, ending up curled on the seat with his head against the wall so he could keep an eye on the self-satisfied detective inspector.  


“Don’t worry Sherlock. I won’t tell.”  


“Tell what?” John asked, concerned, and looking back and forth between Sherlock and Lestrade. “Oh, come on. Tell what?”  


They both looked away from Watson, Sherlock keeping a skittish eye on the man he had apparently reevaluated since learning he was willing and determined to put up with Mycroft. Lestrade just looked out the window and grinned. This was more his division.

Sherlock had never been so relieved to get out of a small space. As soon as the train stopped, he grabbed John’s hand and flew out of the compartment, reaching the platform almost before the other passengers had collected their baggage.  


“If you’re this terrified of someone who can put up with your brother, imagine what normal people must think of me.” John mused.  


“What’s that supposed to mean?”  


“Just that by general consensus, you’re more… let’s say quirky than your brother.” John said innocently.  


Sherlock stepped forward powerfully, drawing his right hand tenderly but firmly down the side of John’s face. “And yet…” He kissed John slowly, noting the complete lack of hesitation, the dilated eyes, the elevated pulse. “Somehow…” He was speaking in his newly-discovered sexy voice, the one that was intimidating and seductive at the same time. 

“You manage to put up with me.”  


“Of course I do,” John whispered, locking his arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissing the taller man. Sherlock, by now, had almost no doubt remaining in his mind that John intended to continue this relationship beyond April Fool’s day. Not that he knew what a fake kiss felt like, but he was pretty sure it wasn’t like that.  


“If you two freaks are quite done?” Donovan’s voice interrupted them rudely. “I’ve been sent to pick you up.” She sneered. “Where’s Lestrade?”  


“Here. Sorry.” Lestrade joined them, replacing his phone in his pocket. “Got an urgent phone call.” He smiled knowingly at Sherlock. “He says ‘dear brother, you’re right.’”  


Sherlock made some sort of muffled sound of acknowledgement and got in the car.  


“Could you stop putting him in a huff? I sort of would rather he be happy.” John said, looking dubiously at Lestrade.  


The police officer smiled unrepentantly. “Come on- I’ve been looking for something to hold over his head for absolute years.”  


“Fine,” John sighed, but then brightened. “Then I’m not going to let go of him for the rest of the day. Bet you a fiver I can distract him from the investigation.”  


Lestrade groaned. “I’ll shut up.”

Upon arriving at Stoke Moran, the first thing Sherlock noticed were the drifters. Most of them he recognized as former units of his homeless network; people he’d assumed had moved away or died. He slipped among them and began offering recompense for information, as was his custom. Many of those he spoke to knew nothing new, though a few offered knowing remarks on the step-father, and one or two slipped away with the promise of bringing back more information.  


Pleased with his start, Sherlock rejoined John and cautiously took his blogger’s hand as they followed Lestrade towards the crime scene. Sherlock observed all he could from the house, of course, but there was little to see outside the factors Lestrade had mentioned. Dr. Roylott was obviously some kind of neo-hippy who had formed a strange attachment to India. There was nothing incriminating, nothing to suggest anything but obsession.  


Suddenly, there was a jostling sound from behind them, and the proprietor himself, a bear of a man, came tearing up, various accoutrements flapping as he did so. He looked vaguely dangerous and slightly ludicrous with a whistle around his neck, a feather braided in his hair, a bindi on his forehead and an oversized overcoat flopping over his hands. 

“Police pigs! Bourgeoisie!” He grabbed John’s arm rather roughly, spinning the short man to face him. “How dare you come here without my permission, you… agents of the system?!”  


John kept unflinching eye contact with the angry giant, cleared his throat and looked rather pointedly sideways at Sherlock, whose face had involuntarily contorted into an expression of barely-controlled possessive overprotectiveness. Dr. Roylott didn’t flinch, however, sneering contemptuously at the detective. “Oh, and what are you going to do about it, plainclothes? Going to beat a civilian for his free speech?”  


“I am not a member of the police force. Neither is John. He is, however, my boyfriend, and if you do not remove your hand from him this instant I have the feeling you will be neither willing nor able to assist in my investigation into your daughter’s death. At the very least, you’ll be charged with obstructing justice. Then again, perhaps you’re the prime suspect…” it was more or less an empty threat, but the way he stared coldly with those piercing blue eyes made it the most threatening statement to ever have been uttered, and after a long moment Dr. Roylott released John, stepping back in a huff.  


Nevertheless, his face quickly cleared, and was covered in an affable beam. “His boyfriend! Oh, how very modern. I do love this country.” He smiled broadly and stuck out his hand for Sherlock to shake.  


The detective was having none of it however, saying simply, “Charmed,” in a manner that suggested he was distinctly otherwise. Sherlock drew John to himself protectively, tucking John inside his arms and putting his chin on the blogger’s head, maintaining an icy glare at Dr. Roylott and emanating a chilling aura that dared anyone to say a thing about the fact that he was more or less cuddling John in the middle of a murder investigation.  


John was allowing the protective snuggling, one hand gripping Sherlock’s lapel and head nested against the detective’s chest, nicely cushioned by Sherlock’s scarf. This made Sherlock very happy, if very awkward. He had never cuddled before, and while John was the ideal person to cuddle, that didn’t change the fact that Sherlock was rather bad at it and felt extremely strange doing it in the middle of a stranger’s mansion. But he pushed aside the discomfort; he had his John safe in his arms, the best place for John to be. Maybe he’d stay there beyond today… Sherlock could hope.  


John felt warm against Sherlock’s chest, but to everyone else the temperature in the room seemed to be plummeting faster the longer Dr. Roylott stood where Sherlock could see him. No one uttered a single syllable.  


That is, until Anderson wandered in, adjusting the buttons on his camera as he always seemed to be doing. “Oh, have they admitted it then? And I missed it? Damn.” He turned to Donovan. “Guess I owe you a tenner, then… What’s wrong with everyone?” He looked about, seeming to notice for the first time that he was lighting a fire on a thin sheet of ice. “What’ve I missed?”  


“As usual, everything.” Sherlock quipped without breaking eye contact with Roylott or releasing John.  


“Sherlock- let go-” John extricated himself and stalked deliberately up to Roylott. The man’s bearing made him seem even taller than Sherlock, and he was decidedly larger, but the ex-army doctor never flinched as he got into the man’s personal space. “I don’t want to hurt you. But I can’t speak for him. I’d advise against touching me, or anyone else. My advice? Do everything he says. Silently. And- try not to be boring.” Watson gave a sardonic little smile, backing into Sherlock’s orbit again. The detective was smirking proudly over the head of his blogger, hands stuck in his pockets and holding his coat away from himself as he tended to do when particularly smug.  


Lestrade cleared his throat. “Can we begin now?” It was fairly clear that he hated his life at the moment, but everyone knew he was also getting cheap thrills. “Donovan- go talk to the drifters again, see if any of them has anything for Sherlock.”  


“One homeless information buffet, coming right up for the freak.” Donovan sauntered off. Anderson watched her walk away.  


They were shown to the room Julia had been in when she died. The body was still there, and Sherlock crouched beside it, gesturing for Watson to join him. “What is…” he moved the dead woman’s hair. “That?”  


Lestrade leant over to see. “That would be her skull, Sherlock.”  


“No- there’s a bump on it. Contusion?”  


Anderson handed Watson a pair of plastic gloves, and the doctor set about gently probing the area Sherlock had indicated. “You’re right- not blunt force trauma, though, it’s too hard for that. Not a knot, more a lump, it feels almost like a particularly nasty sting site. From a wasp or something, but huge.” He turned to look over his shoulder at Roylott, whose face was ashen. “You didn’t bring any exotic bugs back from India, now did you?”  


“No- not one.”  


“Well, pick her up and do her autopsy then, Anderson; see what you get in her blood work.” He stood and pulled off the plastic gloves, leaving Sherlock hovering (sniffing slightly) over the body.  


“Very good, doctor.” Anderson was confused, but that was nothing new. He was being polite, too, which WAS a little new. Sherlock supposed that without the sass of Sally Donovan to back him up, Anderson was just a docile little idiot. Unsurprising.  


“Look around, John.” Sherlock said, standing gracefully and moving out of Anderson’s way. “Tell me what you see.”  


“Erm, well- there’s a bed, pink blankets. A bell chord- who has bell chords anymore? Desk, looks unused but not unclean. Wedding dress in the closet, makeup kits on the desk, pink mirror on the side table. Window, green drapes, old gray stone flooring, probably put in with the original house, and she’s got a big black area rug covering it. In all, rather like the inside of a watermelon.” John pressed his lips into a line and looked at Sherlock. “Childhood room?” He guessed, noting old dolls on a shelf and trying to not sound like a complete idiot.  


“Good, yes- so she moved out. But she was back. For the wedding, presumably, but without much luggage and ooh- unwillingly. She’s done her best not to unpack, not to make the room her own; unpleasant memories for your stepdaughter, Doctor Roylott?” Sherlock looked leadingly at the man watching his stepdaughter’s body be wheeled out of the room. “She didn’t want to stay, but you made her, why?” He paused. Then, with the look of dawning comprehension that so often broke across his stormy brow, Sherlock exclaimed, “Out! Dr. Roylott, get out, Anderson- definitely Anderson- get out! John, Lestrade, stay.” He shut the door in the respectively outraged and confused faces of Dr. Roylott and forensic worker Anderson.  


“Sherlock- what is it?” Lestrade shrugged and spread his hands, then remembered that he had a note pad and pen in them and brought them back together so he could record.  


“John-” Sherlock grabbed John’s shoulders, an intense look in his eyes.  


“Oh- no- don’t do this again. Come on, why’d you make me stay?” There was a thump from the adjacent room, as if to accentuate Lestrade’s protest.  


“Quiet, Lestrade.” Sherlock snapped, then refocused on John. “You said it, John, think.”  


“I said…” He blinked rapidly and wet his lips. “The only time I was talking, I was observing the room. There’s some detail you want me to repeat. The dolls? Is there something about the dolls that tipped you off about her not wanting to be here?”  


“No, John, that was the still-packed suitcase at the foot of her bed; don’t be an idiot. Think.”  


“It’s not the drapes. Or the carpet. Or the wedding details?”  


“Good.”  


“It’s… it’s the bell chord.”  


“Yes!” He released John and turned, hands coming level with his face, spread wide momentarily then clenched in midair satisfaction. “Why do they have a bell chord? Look at the state of this place, it’s falling apart, there’s no way they have the money for servants, least of all servants to sit idle waiting to be summoned by a bell. So- What does this chord really do?” He hopped onto the bed, rumpling the blankets and stepping on the pillow as he reached toward the chord. It was dangling through an air vent about six feet up the wall above the head of the bed. “Why is there an air vent leading to another room, John? What is the purpose of that?” He gave the chord an experimental tug. It didn’t move or give at all, nothing to suggest it was triggering a ringing bell anywhere else. Sherlock jumped down, smiling hugely. “And why, John, is the bed bolted to the floor? Why is it so important for the head of Miss Julia Stoner to be right under that bell chord? The bolts are new, no way they’ve been in more than a week, going from how far along wedding preparations look to have been I’d say Julia’s been here about that long- what do you say, Inspector?”  


“Julia and her fiancé arrived five days ago, Sherlock…” Lestrade looked as though he wanted to compliment the consulting detective but didn’t dare overinflate the man’s head.  


“Excellent, so- why is there a nonworking bell chord and a useless air vent between the room of the stepfather and stepdaughter?” He stopped, eyes flicking up and down the wall. “I need to see Doctor Roylott’s room.” He wrenched the door open and halfway skipped five feet down the wall to pull at the door handle of the stepfather’s room, John and Lestrade side by side behind him.  


“Do you have any ideas, Sherlock?”  


“Four.” He tried the handle again. “Dr. Roylott, are you in there? Open this door.” He knocked forcefully. “Open it, Doctor!”  


“Do you need in?” Helen- the other sister- had just come down the stairs. “I’ve got the key here somewhere.” She smiled tiredly, but with a naughty streak, rummaging in her pockets. “Knew I’d need it- the old bastard never cooperates. It’s all free love this and love humanity that, be kind to others and help those who can’t help themselves… but he never really helps anyone.”  


“Oi, freak!”  


“Ah, yes, Sergeant Donovan.” Sherlock turned. “Bored of snogging Anderson in the foyer closet? Door was a bit ajar; you could redo your lipstick and tell the poor idiot to wipe it off his neck before he goes home to his poor wife.”  


She stared angrily back. “Yeah, I will thanks. Anyway, here’s your drifter- says he won’t talk to anyone but you.”  


Sherlock looked past Donovan to the small man standing hunched uncertainly near the stairs. “Yes?”  


“Well, sir, I’ve ‘eard that the stepfather was a right git to everyone but us ‘drifters’ and that ‘e wanted to get one over on the police pigs - if you’ll pardon the expression, inspector. Some of the blokes ‘been sayin’ that ‘e wanted to kill off the groom to be. See, sirs, the man’s a business man, works in finance, and Dr. Roylott’s got a right ‘atred for that type, sir.”  


“Hm. Hearsay, but consistent with the overblown, easily antagonized personality… But how did he go from the groom to the bride? What possible motivation could there have been to kill his stepdaughter?”  


“I can help with that!” Helen said, holding up a key. “See, when mum died, she put it in her will that the family get a certain amount every month until Julia and I got married, and then it would all go into savings bonds for our assumed children or something.”  


“Financial motivation. From an anti-capitalist!” John snorted. “If he did kill his stepdaughter, he’s got seriously hypocritical incentive.”  
Lestrade interrupted. “We can’t just assume he killed his stepdaughter just because he’s an ass!”  


“No, we cannot; however, there is some evidence to conclude that this was a murder. The terror of Julia’s phone call, Roylott’s reaction to seeing the body and having police on the premises and investigating, plausible financial motives, opposing the wedding, the lack of better possibilities, the curious connection of the bell rope to the useless air vent- what does that mean?!” He buried his hands in his hair and paced a circle, pivoting on his heel. “It’s useless as a bell chord, it’s not any sort of alert system or decoration- doesn’t match the rest of the room-” He put his hands over his eyes and then removed them, swinging them down by his sides. “The bell chord- it’s there on the wall between the two rooms. There’s a vent. Marks of something relatively small moving through the vent, only a little bigger than the bell chord judging by the marks in the dust. There’s a vent and a chord, neither of which work. They’re a bridge between the two rooms- a bridge for what?” He bounced on his toes.  


“Sherlock!” John took his arm, sensing an imminent breakdown in Sherlock’s current train of thought. Sometimes he could almost see them run out of track, and the resulting crashes were what frustrated the detective. “Come at it from a different angle.”  


Sherlock looked wildly at John for a moment, eyes darting madly back and forth, before he pressed a brief kiss to John’s forehead and leapt away, pivoting like a young dancer on the stone floor. He began to pace restlessly in the five foot space between walls. It took him almost two steps to cross, and almost two to go back.  


“Is he- alright?” Helen asked quietly.  


“Of course he is- as all right as this freak ever gets.” Donovan snorted and shook her head, setting her curls bouncing. “The psychopath loves problems like this.”  


“High-functioning sociopath!” Sherlock declared without pausing in his pacing, hands fluttering in front of him. John rolled his eyes and stepped into Sherlock’s path.  


“Wrong.”  


“What?”  


“You’d be upset if something happened to me.” Watson squared his shoulders, ignoring Donovan’s snickers.  


“That’s different, I-” Sherlock wet his lips, mind still churning over the angles of the murder.  


“Is it?” John kissed the side of Sherlock’s mouth.  


Sherlock’s lips puckered belatedly and he turned absently, beginning his pacing again in a different direction. He tried his best to focus on the murder at hand, shoving the hope garnered from John’s behavior into a corner of his mind for later examination.  


John retreated to stand beside Lestrade and Helen, watching Sherlock’s arrested progress. He could practically see the moment the detective clicked out of touch with the world around him; John could leave or shout or leap out a window and Sherlock wouldn’t notice.  


“He doesn’t love you, you know.” Donovan said, folding her arms.  


“Excuse me?” John’s eyebrows went into attack mode.  


“He doesn’t love anyone. He can’t.” Her voice was almost compassionate, but that didn’t make John want to punch her less.  


“I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.” John said tightly.  


Lestrade sensed trouble, in the way all decent police can. “Er- Sally, why don’t you go check up on the progress of our blood work?”  


“Detective Inspector, the results of that are going to take-”  


“Go, Donovan, now.” He watched with a forced smile as she left. “Sorry about that.” He leaned toward Watson, who was staring determinedly at Sherlock and unclenching his fist. “She doesn’t understand, what it’s like. Loving someone like him.”  


Without thinking, Watson replied, “And you do?”  


Lestrade looked at him, mouth tucking in with humor. “Mycroft.”  


“Ah yeah.” Watson nodded absently. “How long for that?”  


“Left my wife a month ago. Surprised Sherlock didn’t bring it up earlier. Started with Mycroft formally about a week ago. Been in love with him for a year and a half.” Lestrade cleared his throat awkwardly.  


“Oh. I guess the only thing I can think of to say is sorry,” the corner of Watson’s mouth twitched up as he glanced sideways at Lestrade.  


Greg chuckled. “So, how long have you-”  


“I’ve got it!” Sherlock shrieked, hopping and spinning in midair to face his audience. “Dr. Roylott in the middle of the night with a rare snake!”  


“What?” Helen exclaimed.  


“Did you just make a Cluedo reference?” Lestrade asked.  


“Hate that game.” Sherlock waved the question away. “Irrelevant. Now listen- the man was obsessed with India, the bell chord was useless except as a path through the grate between the rooms, I thought at first that maybe he dripped poison down it into Julia’s open mouth as she slept, but how could he be sure it landed in her mouth? And how would we then explain the lump on her head- as John observed, it was like an overlarge sting site: it was a bite! The snake slid down the rope in the middle of the night and bit Julia, leaving her with only enough time to make a call to her sister,” He nodded at Helen, standing speechless in the hall with a single angry tear streaking down her face. “And then the doctor summoned it back up with the whistle he wears around his neck! Now, clearly Julia was not thinking straight, venom having been delivered straight to her head, but the description she managed to give of the snake- the speckled band- and the size of the venom injection site would lead me to suggest that the offending snake is a swamp adder, the deadliest snake in India. Now, to test!” He gently took the key to Roylott’s room from Helen, sparing her a sympathetic glance, and unlocking the door. Inside, there was a scene of utter chaos. “Oh, no,”  


“What?” Lestrade looked around Sherlock to survey the room. “Ugh. Bad luck.” There were papers everywhere, and Roylott was seated in his desk chair, pushed against the wall. A safe in the corner stood open, and in Roylott’s clenched fist were the headless remains of a swamp adder, one fang from which was still stuck in the dentist’s jugular vein.  


“Suicide. Held the snake to his neck, flailed, crushed the creature, pushed his chair back in his death throes.” Sherlock explained, observing the room. “Maybe he heard me, maybe he just panicked. Either way, I think that when Julia Stoner’s blood work comes back, you’ll have your corroborative evidence. It’s too bad we can’t interrogate him though, I’d like to at least know how he got the snake through customs.” He shrugged and turned away, nearly colliding with Anderson. Sherlock looked mockingly at the other man, who was raising his camera to snap photos of the new body.  


“I am sorry for your loss.” Sherlock said quietly to Helen Stoner, whose face was now liberally streaked with mascara tear tracks.  


“Don’t be. He was an idiot. An arse, a hypocrite, a terror, and an idiot.” She shook her head.  


“I meant your sister.”  


“Oh- well then, thank you, Mr. Holmes.” She smiled tearfully. “She was a big fan of your adventures- I think she’s just happy that you were the one to solve it.”

A photo crew had shown up before they had even finished packing the second body into the coroner’s van. There were several camera people jostling for a photo of Sherlock, and he backed away from them, looking wildly around for John. The retired army doctor was suddenly at his side, clinging to his hand. “Kiss me.” He directed quietly. Sherlock regarded him curiously out of the corner of his eye as he continued to back away from the flashing cameras. Photographic commemoration- only one possible explanation- this wasn’t ending today.  


Throwing his decorous upbringing to the winds, Sherlock joyously grabbed his blogger around the waist and dipped him, kissing John like they were in Hollywood. It wasn’t the most natural thing for him- displays of affection, especially in public, were not his area of expertise- but with John, and at John’s request even, and knowing that this was the day he got everything he wanted, the slight embarrassment was completely worth it. John’s arms flailed for a moment, surprised and off-balance, but looped around Sherlock’s neck as the blogger kissed back, clearly just as exhilarated and awkward as Sherlock was. Sherlock could practically taste the fact that John knew that Sherlock knew. There was a brief gasp, a pause in the otherwise relentless flashing of the tabloid cameras, and then it resumed, twice as fast as before.  


“Okay, okay, we get it, your readers are going to love this. Now back off!” Lestrade barked. The news crews dispersed, mumbling, and Sherlock put Watson back on his feet.  


“Some kiss, Sherlock.” The blogger was on the verge of teasing.  


“Some April Fools, John.” Sherlock purred back in his deep, rumbling, brand-new sexy voice. He released John and began to turn back to Lestrade to finish up the investigation and arrange their ride back to the station.  


“Hnnnnnh.” John made a sound like a whimper, stumbling after Sherlock.  


“Are you alright, John?” The detective was alarmed- he’d never heard a person make that sound before. He turned back and took John’s shoulders in his hands, rubbing them in what he hoped was a suitably comforting manner.  


John coughed. “Er- yeah.” His voice cracked and he coughed again, pulling on the bottom of his jacket. “Just fine.” He smiled, accentuating the slight flush that had appeared on his face.  


“What was-”  


“I’ll explain later, Sherlock, let’s just go home and get changed for dinner.”

They shared a car and then a train compartment with Lestrade, who could barely contain his satisfaction at another case solved quickly and relatively cleanly. He kept pulling at his tie, and Sherlock surmised that Mycroft would be meeting them at the station.  


“So- you’re coming to dinner?” John asked, trying to break the silence on his side of the compartment. Sherlock was off in his own world, trying to figure out how Roylott had gotten the snake through customs and trained it to bite then return at the sound of the whistle.  


“Oh yeah.” Lestrade nodded. “Mycroft made it a point.” He glanced curiously at Sherlock, who was staring determinedly out the window, fingers laced absently with John’s.  


“Well, good then!”  


“Yeah, yeah…” Lestrade looked off awkwardly. His phone rang, and he stepped out of the compartment.  


“Sherlock-” John said, turning, but the detective had fallen asleep. John leaned against him and drifted off.

Once the train stopped, Sherlock jolted awake, noting that one of his arms was numb before realizing the cause- John Watson had fallen asleep on it. His face grew unexpectedly tender as he looked at the untroubled face of his sleeping blogger. The problem of tonight, of their unexpected relationship, was at the forefront of his mind again but he tried his best to ignore it and keep true to his idea that John had a reason for behaving as he had, and Sherlock would find it out in good time. Hopefully, though, that would be tonight- he was getting impatient. He caressed John’s hair and whispered, “John, we’re here.”  


“Mmm…” The blogger awoke slowly.  


“Oh, stop being so goddamn… cute.” Lestrade feigned utter disgust as he watched Sherlock’s face melt at the sight of John’s bleary journey to consciousness.  


“Go meet Mycroft, you’ll feel better.” Sherlock sniped back. “See you at dinner.” He said as Lestrade left and John sat up, yawning.  


“’Time is it?” John rubbed his eyes.  


Sherlock couldn’t help but kiss the end of John’s nose. “We are at the station- we should go and get dressed for dinner, assuming you still intend to go?”  
“Mhm.”  


Sherlock stood and pulled John up with him. “Come on then,” He left, holding his sleepy blogger’s hand.  


Once back at the flat, he tried his best not to envision dinner, or John changing upstairs. It was strange- to desire someone- though not unwelcome, since that someone was John. Sherlock put on his favorite purple shirt, the one he had thought only that morning that he may never wear again. He left the top button open and surveyed himself in the mirror. Brushed his hair. Cleaned his teeth. Tried in vain to make his hands stop shaking nervously. He met John in the sitting room- the blogger had cleaned up, trading his striped jumper for one of the shirts Sherlock knew John reserved for date nights. This made him inexplicably smug; he already knew he counted as a date now, but to see John dressed up for a date and waiting for him… it was very nice.  


“Ready, then?”  


“Yes- are you?”  


“Ready.”

It was a silent cab ride, Sherlock doing his very best to keep his mind calm, focus on the moment, and enjoy John’s presence. Nevertheless, he couldn’t help but be just a little worried that he’d misinterpreted, that John would take a knee at dinner only to turn away and announce the whole thing an elaborate joke.  
For his part, John held one of Sherlock’s hands and played absently with his fingers, right knee bouncing nervously.  
They arrived at Tierra Brindisa, and paid the cabbie. As they got out of the car, Ms. Hudson was also arriving, and John waved. Sherlock increased pace to follow her in to the restaurant, but John lagged.  


“Sherlock- wait,” John grabbed his coat lapel and tugged him to the side of the building. “Before we go in there, I just want…” He swallowed, and looked down for a moment. Then he looked back up, into Sherlock’s tender eyes, set his face into an expression of pure determination and turned his hands over, resting them flat on Sherlock’s chest, moving one thumb almost subconsciously in tiny circles.  


“Yes, John?” Sherlock whispered, hands moving to sit on John’s hips as he bent his face closer, bringing their foreheads almost into contact.  


“You- you know, right? That this isn’t a joke?” John’s eyes were resolutely fixed on Sherlock’s scarf.  


“Yes, John, I know.” He pressed a kiss to the shorter man’s temple. “And I don’t think I’ve ever been more pleased to have been lied to.”  


“G-good.” John exhaled in relief.  


“Is that all?” Sherlock nuzzled his nose through John’s hair, enjoying the new sensation and ability to touch John- simply touch- any way he liked.  


“No, it’s- it’s not all. Sherlock- I love you.”  


Sherlock drew John close to him, burying his face in his blogger’s hair. “I love you too, John Watson.” It was uncomfortable to say, an admission of a ridiculous emotional attachment, but it was true and Sherlock was glad to confess it, just this once for himself and for John.  


“And- it doesn’t bother you that I’m older? That I’m broken?”  


“Does that matter? To other people? What must it be like… Nothing you are could keep me from loving you.” Sherlock reassured his John, holding the other man tighter. He felt a sudden need for reassurance, too, worried now about what John thought despite the inherent ridiculousness of it. “You don’t care that I’m a sociopath? That I will never be kind or sympathetic, that I will alternatingly be loud and absolutely silent and that I will spend most of my time being exceedingly bored?” It was almost like what Sherlock had said when asking John to be his flat mate, but this time there was real fear that John would reconsider, that this last moment of consideration would be the one that changed everything.  


“I love you, you annoying bastard.” John mumbled, hands going over Sherlock’s shoulders to cling tightly. Sherlock could almost hear his blogger smiling, and he smiled in return. “I will admit, I was a little uncomfortable about snuggling with you in the middle of a stranger’s house that we were visiting for a dead body,” He laughed shortly, “but given the way it made my stomach feel when you called me- your boyfriend, and the way you were so protective of me even though you know I’ve killed people and am perfectly able to defend myself... I guess sometimes it’s a little bit nice to be the one being protected.”  


“I will always do everything I can to keep you safe, John.” Sherlock promised, holding the other man tight, amazed and pleased at the idea of being able to do so for the rest of his life. And the tiniest bit discomfited at the idea of so much physical contact, but he assumed it would become less aggressive as he and John became accustomed to it.  


“So, erm.” John let go and took a step back, tugging his jacket down and straightening his shoulders. “Shall we go in and have dinner, then?”  


Sherlock offered his arm to the shorter man, grinning happily at John’s confusion. “What about your April Fool’s joke?”  


“Oh, don’t worry, I thought of a good one. Just go with it, say whatever you like. Whatever- er, whatever comes to mind.”  


Intrigued, Sherlock nodded, and pulled the restaurant door open for John.  


“There you two are! Snogging in the alley?” Lestrade teased mercilessly, thinking himself safe in the protective cocoon of Mycroft’s presence. Their hands were intertwined under the table and resting on Mycroft’s knee; Greg was entertaining himself by occasionally brushing the pad of his thumb over Mycroft’s knee and making the bureaucrat fidget and blush the slightest bit. Not only was it adorable in itself, it had a wonderful dual payoff; Greg could see Sherlock developing a facial tick already. Oh, sweet justice, he thought. Revenge is a dish best served with a side of cake.  


Much to the detective inspector’s dismay, however, John had noticed everything going on and slipped an arm around Sherlock’s hips, inconspicuously patting the taller man’s bottom as he did so. Sherlock jumped and blushed, beginning to sputter as Mycroft raised both eyebrows and smiled slightly, in his superior manner. Everyone else around the table- Molly, Mrs. Hudson and their dates- was looking on in confusion and slight discomfort, dimly aware of the power struggle going on in the auras of the Holmes brothers and the war for awkward cuteness between their boyfriends.  


“Shall we sit, then?” John suggested suavely, with his own hint of superiority directed- presumably- at Mycroft. He pulled a chair between Greg and empty space, filling that space a moment later with a seat for Sherlock. The consulting detective faced Mrs. Hudson at an angle, and did not have to watch his brother and Lestrade as long as he stared straight ahead or looked to his right, at Molly and her date.  


“Introductions are in order, I think,” Mrs. Hudson said as her tenants seated themselves. “This is Robert! He runs the delivery truck that stops in across the street.”  


“Hello.” Robert didn’t look it, at six five and with a full white beard, but he was quite introverted.  


Mrs. Hudson laid a hand on his arm. “You’ve met Mycroft and Lestrade already, and Molly of course, but these are the two I tell you about. My tenants, the ones who solve the murders. He’s the one with the thumbs in the freezer.” She nodded slightly toward Sherlock. Robert nodded his acknowledgement of the new information.  


“Hi Sherlock,” Molly smiled brightly, seeming for once to be honestly okay with the fact that Sherlock didn’t return her affections. Good, clearly last night’s ill-thought-out hug had had no negative effects. “This is Mickey!”  


Sherlock looked the man over. “Not gay. Er- nice to meet you.” Middle class. Salesman. Worked with his hands, mildly intelligent by normal standards, laugh lines. Good match for Molly. “I suppose you’ve met everyone else- I’m Sherlock Holmes, and this is my- friend, John Watson.”  


“I’m his boyfriend.” John corrected with a smile, resting his arm over the back of Sherlock’s chair.  


“Quite.” Sherlock agreed, then missed Mickey’s reply as he tried not to allow himself to be distracted by the unexpected allure of John’s lips, so close and so kissable… he vowed to steal a kiss as soon as possible without offending the blogger’s sensibilities. For the moment, he tore his eyes away and tried to focus on Mrs. Hudson, who was retelling some trite story about business or some such twaddle.  


They all ordered dinner, laughing at the mispronunciations and at Sherlock’s stubborn intelligence. Sherlock laughed at Mycroft failing his diet, but did so quietly out of the corner of his mouth to John. Lestrade may have heard a word or two though, judging by the glare Sherlock was treated to, to which he of course replied with a pun about Lestrade being the de jure head of her Majesty’s Secret Service (given that he had previously referred to Mycroft as the Queen whilst they were in Buckingham palace). John understood the reference and snickered along with him.  


Sherlock could tell that Ms. Hudson’s date was failing, though she would likely keep the man as a friend. Molly’s date seemed to be going remarkably well; the man was quite courteous to her and she never once looked longingly at Sherlock as she had used to. He refused to analyze Lestrade’s date. And as for his own- John had entwined their feet under the table and smiled every time Sherlock looked at him, but the detective knew that his blogger was nervous about something. The joke he had mentioned? What on earth was it? Not their original idea, surely. No one would believe they weren’t really a couple, not after today and the photos and Sherlock’s expressions of affection… Partway through dinner, he caught Mycroft texting in the corner of his eye. A moment later, his own phone vibrated.  


“Joke’s on you, dear brother.”  


“Wrong.”  


Mycroft looked up, perplexed, just in time to see Sherlock glance around and lean quickly over to steal a kiss from John. The blogger tasted like pasta and garlic as Sherlock briefly pulled John’s lower lip between his own. John leaned forward as Sherlock leaned back, clearly not wanting the kiss to end. Sherlock was pleased. He smiled tenderly at John, then smugly at Mycroft. Lestrade had observed the exchange and slid his hand slightly up Mycroft’s leg in retaliation, earning himself a not-quite-heartfelt glare from the elder Holmes brother and a very heartfelt glare from the younger. The inspector lifted his eyebrows cheerily and gave a cheeky smile to both brothers. John cleared his throat, determined that the night would not turn into a one-upmanship challenge (or at least that if it had to, his team won). Unfortunately, just as he cleared his throat, a lull in other conversation had come about, and now everyone looked expectantly toward him.  


“Oops- uh,” He chuckled, “ah- well, I suppose, since you’re all… you’re all. Well.” He coughed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in utter confusion. Not something he was used to, but he really was doing his best to just go with John, to keep up but not race ahead. He could feel his brow furrowing as he waited along with everyone else for John to continue. 

The blogger obliged; “Well, Sherlock… I’d planned this differently. And I’m sure that for once- I’ll surprise you. But Sherlock,” He pushed his chair back firmly, sinking to the ground in the same movement, on bended knee beside his detective.  


Dawn broke over Sherlock’s face, melting away all traces of confusion and uncertainty as though they had never shown. He couldn’t help but smile. Even though he still didn’t know what the joke was, he knew what the truth was, and that was all he asked for- the truth was so brilliant. John picked up his hands, holding them firmly but gently, one thumb gliding over the backs of Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock watched John’s face; mouth twitching into a nervous smile, eyes blinking at a slightly increased rate. His eyes- Sherlock was spellbound. John’s eyes were as expressive as he’d ever seen them, holding hope and fear and love… so much love. Sherlock didn’t know what he could ever have done to make John love him too, but there it was, plain as day. Overwhelming and unreserved.  


“Sherlock- will you marry me?”  


“John- John.” Sherlock had to clear his throat, humiliatingly, but he didn’t care, looking into John’s hopeful face. Lower lip tucked in, tongue peeking slightly out, eyebrows lifted, eyes full of hope. “Of course I will. I’d be lost without my blogger.” It was as close as he could get to expressing the comfort he felt in John’s presence, as close as he could get to expressing the love and need he felt for the retired army doctor, as close as he could get to saying how much he needed John by his side and in his mind. At least, it was as close as he could get in public.  


Sherlock half expected the joke to come now. Something about what a short time they’d acknowledged that they’d been really dating, something about how long they’d each thought their love for the other was unrequited, something even about picking up the milk. Not anything that John thought might hurt Sherlock, obviously, and nothing that would cheapen the moment they promised to join their lives, but something…  


Nothing. John’s relieved smile was all the light that ever entered Sherlock’s world. “Thank god.” The blogger chuckled, producing a ring from his pocket and slipping it on Sherlock’s finger with a chaste kiss to the taller man’s hand. “This would- this would’ve been an awfully awkward night back at the flat if you’d said no.” He stood, keeping hold of Sherlock’s hands, and bent at the waist to gently kiss Sherlock’s smiling lips.  


When they broke apart after far too short a sweet kiss, Sherlock became aware again of the people around them. Molly’s date looked as though he were watching a video about internet kittens; he knew next to nothing of the story behind the touching moment, but was touched nonetheless. Molly herself was smiling, not quite sadly, but with a reminiscent gleam in her eye as though she were thinking of the times she had hoped Sherlock would be on bended knee for her. Mrs. Hudson’s failed date- Robert- was looking into his salad, poking it quietly with his fork. Mrs. Hudson looked utterly unsurprised and if anything, rather proud of her boys. Lestrade was bright pink and his mouth hung slightly open as his eyes jumped back and forth as though waiting for the punch line. Sherlock couldn’t help but smirk. Mycroft’s face was harder to read; his characteristic smirk paired with glad eyes and relaxed posture was an odd combination. Sherlock gave his brother the best approximation of a smile he could manage, and reluctantly mouthed “thank you.” To which Mycroft nodded generously, clearly patting himself on the back mentally. Sherlock rolled his eyes- he and John would eventually have figured something out without Mycroft’s help.  


Outside the table, Angelo started clapping. His debt to Sherlock was repaid- he had brought the candle on Sherlock and John’s first date. The rest of the people in the small establishment began clapping too, following Angelo’s lead without necessarily knowing what they were clapping for. John ducked his head, embarrassed, as he took his seat again, and Sherlock smiled as he stretched an arm around his blogger, admiring the new ring on his own finger.

“John,” Sherlock said as they got into a cab. “I have to ask- what exactly was your bet with Mycroft?”  


“Figured that out? So clever…” John traced a hand up Sherlock’s knee, making the detective shudder. “Oh, you have no idea how long I’ve thought about doing that…” John murmured distractedly and leaned close to Sherlock.  


“John,” the detective gasped. “Not in the cab…”  


“Right, sorry.” He sat straighter. “Anyway, the er- the bet with Mycroft. He picked me up one day and told me he couldn’t bear to see us both so unhappy when we wanted the same thing. I asked him what that might be and he said each other. Well, I was skeptical, naturally, that you could ever love me… boring little me.” He chuckled self-depreciatively, and Sherlock put an arm over his shoulders. He’d have to disagree more strongly later, for now he wanted to know the story. “Thanks. Anyway, he convinced me, and he bet me that I couldn’t get you to acknowledge it within a month. So I had to come up with something that would make you feel like you could express any affection you wanted to, but not pressured to do so. Did I do okay?”  


Sherlock paused, thinking of the pain caused by walking the line between being John’s friend and John’s boyfriend, the sorrow of thinking he was unwanted by the one person he had ever needed. “You did wonderfully.”  


“Oh good.” John settled back, self-satisfied.  


“So then- what was the payoff?”  


John began to laugh. “He’s paying for our wedding.”  


Sherlock couldn’t help but join in. “And if you had lost?”  


“I would’ve had to take you, him, and Lestrade to some event, he didn’t really say much, some kind of press day? Not sure. He might even have made it up just to motivate me.”  


“I wouldn’t doubt it… and the joke tonight?”  


John abruptly grew serious. “The joke, Sherlock, was on everyone who thought that I was too broken, too in denial. The joke was on everyone who thought you were too cold to love.”  


“So… it wasn’t a humorous joke?”  


“That depends on your sense of humor.” John answered, smiling. “Now, Sherlock- how up for physical expressions of affection are you?” He moved his hand to Sherlock’s other leg.  


“With you, John? I expect we’ll only be needing one bedroom.” He dropped his voice to its new sexy depths. “But I’d suggest we wait until we’re out of the cab.”  


John practically fell all over him, having held in his love and desire for almost too long. “Don’t use that voice on me, Sherlock…”  
Sherlock was nonplussed. “Why not?”  


“You are a tease, Sherlock. Don’t tell me to wait and then use that voice on me… How long I’ve waited already, don’t tell me to wait anymore. Not in that voice…”  


Comprehension. “Ah. Well then, I suppose… I’ll stop until we arrive at home.” And he actually did.  


Once the door to 221 B Baker Street swung shut behind them though, and John had begun tugging Sherlock upstairs, Sherlock began a litany of compliments and declarations of affection, all uttered in his fun new toy- his sexy voice. He made John moan more than once, the blogger pausing ascent to kiss Sherlock forcefully and tug at his shirt buttons. Somehow, they made it to the landing outside the door. They had silently agreed on the nearest bedroom- Sherlock’s. Sherlock kicked the door open, swooping John into his arms and carrying him in. The blogger protested- “Sherlock! You’re supposed to wait until after the wedding!”  


“I don’t care,” Sherlock purred. “Welcome home, John Watson.”


End file.
